Heather Gelb- A Poem

The Toxic Poet

 

She sits at the worn table

Feeling Inverted,

Uncomfortable,

Tugging at threads of

Self-hate

That poke through

Simmering illusions.

 

She pushes down hard

On the pencil,

Praying

For all the hate

To leave her sick body,

To flow through lead

And pool on pure white

Into a jumble of words that

Transform into forgiveness,

And release the smell

Of a flowering field

Beyond right and wrong.

 

The smell of grace.

 

Relief

 

 

Brief Bio – I find that training for marathons is an ideal time for rearranging all those words in my mind into poetic thoughts and stories.